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Language is a Tricky Thing

Two years ago, when I met Gibi in Saorge, I thought I understood him to say he had a son of 18 months. That was a little surprising, given that he’s probably in his 50s.

All this time, I’ve thought this.

Yesterday on the mountain, I asked how old his son was now.


“No, I mean your other son.”

“I have only one son.”

“But didn’t you tell me you had a little son?”

“Oh yes! My little son. He’s 4.”


Then my faux pas hits me. In French, Petit fils means grandson, even though a direct translation would be “little son.”


Boy, we had a good chuckle over that one!

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